


In Case You Don’t Live Forever

by amavyllis



Series: Sing to Me Instead [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Relationship, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Depends on how you look at it, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Sad, Unhappy Ending, falling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:37:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21996553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amavyllis/pseuds/amavyllis
Summary: “No, no, no, no, no, no,” Crowley says and searches his gaze, trying to findhope. “Angel, that’s impossible, you can’t Fall, you’regood.”Aziraphale smiles, and it’s both sad and fond. “My dear, so are you.”After everything, the angel Falls.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Sing to Me Instead [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1583461
Comments: 12
Kudos: 92





	In Case You Don’t Live Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Just as a warning, please be aware that this work contains descriptions of a body being slowly burned away. It’s not explicit or gory or very long. It’s about an angel Falling, and my version of it is that it’s painful. I’ve kept the rating at G because I think it’s safe enough for anyone to read, but please lmk if you think that should be changed.
> 
> This work was inspired by the song In Case You Don’t Live Forever by Ben Platt.
> 
> **Content Warnings: death, slight body gore**

It’s the small things that are noticed first. It’s the oddly stiff movements, frequent shivering, deep forehead creases, and the way the eyes shift like they’re newly wary of everything.

It’s all those things and more, but what sets Crowley off is the smell. It’s not a _bad_ one, per say, just _different._ He doesn’t understand it. At first, he says nothing, in the hope that it might go away, but in the pit of his stomach there remains a sense of unease that he cannot find a way to settle.

“You smell different,” he finally tells Aziraphale one afternoon, when they’re out at lunch. They’ve been to this restaurant a countless number of times. Aziraphale likes it because they have a cinnamon crumb cake that is, in his words, “simply to die for, my dear.” He means this metaphorically, of course. It only costs £6.

Aziraphale pauses, setting down the fork that was halfway to his mouth. He looks over at him quizzically and says, “Sorry? I smell different?”

“Yeah,” Crowley replies, resting his chin in his hand, and focusing hard on the angel. His tongue flicks out to taste the air again. It’s on this taste that he realizes he _knows_ this smell, although even on consecutive probing, he can’t decide how. It’s locked somewhere in the back of his subconscious, buried beneath all that he wants to forget.

“I-Is it a _bad_ smell?” the angel asks, and now he’s beginning to look worried. He sniffs at his coat.

“No…” says Crowley, because it really isn’t. He sees Aziraphale visibly relax at his response. “It’s just...well, _different_ ,” he continues, struggling to find the right words. He’s beginning to feel a bit peeved by it all. “I can’t describe it.”

“Well, perhaps it is the new cologne, my dear,” Aziraphale concludes and happily resumes eating again. “I’ll go back to the old one since it bothers you so.”

Crowley grunts in response, picks at his quiche, and tries to remember where he’s smelled this scent before.

They’ve had a pleasant period of peace following the events of Armageddon. Neither Heaven nor Hell has contacted them since, which Crowley has taken as a sign that they’ll be left alone from now on. Clearly, their former head offices mean to forget about the two of them. He hopes that it stays that way.

So things have more or less returned back to normal—as normal as can be for a demon and an angel. They’re both much more relaxed in public, now that they no longer need to pretend to be enemies. They wander through parks, explore art museums, laze around in the bookshop. And now, even when people are looking, they hold hands.

Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale have ever defined their relationship or voiced the feelings they have for each other. It’s never been necessary. Crowley knows that he loves Aziraphale and that he loves him in return. Expressing that through words would only complicate things. Besides, Crowley wouldn’t even know where to begin. So much has happened between them over the centuries. Due to the fact that they’ve known each other for over 6000 years, they are two creatures that have formed an intimate bond no one will ever be able to match. It’s deeper and truer than anything else. To them, a world without the other is not a world worth being in. Their fates and lives are so intertwined that being together is a given. Maybe that kind of thing can never be explained.

But sometimes, when Crowley watches Aziraphale doze in the grass on one of their picnics or cuddles up next to him under the covers when it’s cold, he wishes he knew how to tell Aziraphale that he loves him. He doesn’t know how he could ever explain how much Aziraphale means to him, how he loves him more than the angel could ever know. One day, he thinks, he’ll find the words. He’s in no hurry, after all; he can wait. 

Unfortunately, the day comes sooner than he expects, and it is before he is ready.

But before it does, Crowley gets to stroll through the streets of London with Aziraphale by his side. They had paid for their meal—or, really, by some miracle weren’t _asked_ to—and begun making their way back to the bookshop. Crowley wasn’t really used to walking so much; he usually took the Bentley everywhere, but on this occasion, Aziraphale had suggested going by foot. Crowley had naturally obliged his request, although he was beginning to wonder why walking had to take so long.

“Oh, wasn’t that just lovely, Crowley?” the angel asks as they walk, his entire being radiating with joy.

Crowley can’t help but smile at the sight of Aziraphale’s beaming grin. “I’ve never seen you so happy.”

Aziraphale looks over at him and laughs. He hooks his arm around Crowley’s and leans into him, sighing happily. “How could I not be?” he says. “I’m here with you, enjoying my life. It’s all so perfect.”

Despite the smile on Aziraphale’s face, Crowley thinks he notices a sad twinge to his cheerful words. It’s so slight that he almost doesn’t notice it—but there, _there_ ; the corner of Aziraphale’s lips tug downwards for just a moment. Crowley blinks and thinks he might be imagining it because then it’s gone. He studies Aziraphale’s face for another moment longer, but can’t find anything in his face betraying any kind of uneasiness. Crowley has been so anxious lately that he must be reading into things too deeply. He forgets about it.

Soon enough, the angel and the demon arrive at the bookshop. Once inside, Aziraphale carefully hangs his coat and scarf on the rack, sighing a little as he examines the other items hanging from it.

“Whatever poor fellow left behind his hat still hasn’t returned to retrieve it,” he says, picking up the hat in question and mulling it over in his hands. “And it’s starting to get cold.”

“Oh, he’ll come back, angel,” Crowley replies, setting his sunglasses down on the counter, and rubs at his eyes. He always takes them off, nowadays, when they’re alone in the bookshop together. Aziraphale seems to like being able to see his eyes, and for him, it’s like he can be a little bit more himself as he naturally is. He’s grown so used to hiding; he doesn’t want to continue a life like that.

“I do hope so.” Aziraphale sets the hat back on the stand and steps further into the room.

Crowley smiles, moving forward to follow him, when he notices a black feather lying on the ground. He bends over to pick it up. “What’s this?” he asks, twirling it between his fingers.

“What’s wha—oh,” says Aziraphale, turning around, and his eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Did a bird get in here or something? Is it mine?” Crowley guesses, displeased by the thought. He doesn’t want to be going around shedding feathers around London.

“No, no, not yours.” Aziraphale seems uncomfortable. “You’re right, it was a—a crow that flew in while I was airing out the bookshop,” he explains, rocking back and forth on his heels as he remembers. “Had to shoo him out right away. Didn’t want him messing with my belongings. It was rather difficult to safely get him out. Bit of a scuffle, lots of feathers flying around. Thought I cleaned it all up, but I suppose I missed one.”

Crowley chuckles as he pictures the angel frantically trying to catch this rebellious crow. “This feather is quite big though,” he says, still pondering it.

Aziraphale leans over and plucks the feather from his hands. “It was a big crow, my dear,” he says and smiles. “Hm, perhaps I’ll make this into a pen.” He pockets it away.

Again, there’s that odd downward curve in his smile. But again, Crowley passes it off as his imagination. He checks his watch and notices that their little outing had taken longer than expected. With a sigh, he slides his glasses back onto his nose. “Well, I should be off,” he says to Aziraphale. “My plants need to be watered. I have to check that those little bastards haven’t wilted in my absence.”

“Alright, dear, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Aziraphale leans in to give Crowley a peck on the cheek. “Mind how you go.”

“Yeah. See ya, angel.”

He waves once and disappears through the door.

* * *

On one particular morning, a few days later, Crowley saunters in the bookshop in search of Aziraphale. The angel hadn’t answered his phone call, and so, having news that needed to be delivered, he decided to quickly pop by.

As he opens the door of the bookshop, he says, “Hey, angel, just wanted to let you know that I need to head out of town but I’ll be—” Crowley stops when his gaze falls on Aziraphale’s body lying unmoving on the floor of the bookshop. Immediately he runs to his side, and there are already tears forming in his eyes as he shakes him. “Aziraphale!” 

_I can’t lose you again not again wake up wake up don’t leave what do I do if I lose you please—_

To his relief, Aziraphale opens his eyes. He sits up, rubbing the back of his head, and looks over at Crowley. “What are you doing here, my dear boy?” he asks, eyes wide in mild curiosity.

Crowley swallows. He stares at Aziraphale for a few moments and then slumps over—all the energy leaving his body in a great, relieved sigh. “I came to tell you something,” he says breathlessly, remembering his original intentions. “A-Are you okay? What happened?”

“Oh, I…” Aziraphale seems slightly dazed. “I don’t... _quite_ remember what happened, but I think I tripped over a book I left on the floor and must have hit my head.”

“You need to be more careful, Aziraphale,” Crowley replies, pulling him to his feet and leading him to the couch so he can sit down.

Aziraphale nods wordlessly, gently touching the place on his head that must have made contact with the floor. His face is oddly pale; Crowley naturally attributes it to the fall.

Crowley rubs at his eyes from behind his glasses and sighs again. “You really scared me there. I thought something had happened to you.”

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry to have given you a fright. I’m really alright. Just a bit woozy still.”

“Woozy?” he repeats and laughs. 

“Woozy,” Aziraphale confirms and laughs too. Then, remembering, he says, “Oh, you said you came to tell me something?”

“Well, I was going to leave town for a couple days to take care of something important, but,” Crowley is still eyeing him worryingly, “I’m rather concerned about you.” _You’ve been weird lately,_ he thinks but does not say. He still can’t figure out what it is that’s been bothering him about Aziraphale, but he can sense how close he is to finding it.

“Crowley, I’m _fine_ ,” Aziraphale replies and pats his knee. He huffs when Crowley’s eyes narrow. “Really. I just slipped. That shouldn’t be a reason for you to drop your plans.”

“No, I’m going to stay,” he says decisively, because it’s not even about the fall, really. It’s all these little things that have been slowly building up this past week. He doesn’t know _what_ they’re building up to, but he can’t ignore it anymore.

The problem is that Aziraphale can be as equally decisive as Crowley when he wants to be. The angel furrows his eyebrows and says, “It’ll only be a couple days. What do you think is going to happen to me in such a short time?” His eyes soften and he squeezes Crowley’s knee. “I promise I won’t go out while you’re away. I’ll be right here when you get back. Whatever you need to tend to, do it and then come back.”

“But—”

“My dear, I’m _really_ fine.”

But it’s not about you being fine, he thinks, it’s about you being safe.

He’s not sure that Aziraphale will be, even though he’s not sure why.

He says none of this, however, just grumbles quietly and nods.

Aziraphale’s gaze is gentle. He holds out a hand for Crowley to take. “Come, I’ll brew us some tea.”

“Don’t you have any wine?” he asks as they stand up and head into the kitchen. It briefly registers in his mind that the floor of the bookshop is clear, but the detail dissipates from his thoughts before he can understand that there are no books for Aziraphale to have tripped over.

* * *

When Crowley returns to London two days later, his business finished, the weather is cold. Warm summer bleeds into chilly fall like the Earth doesn’t quite know when the seasons should be changing. He shivers as he walks against the wind and thinks about the steaming cup of cocoa that could be waiting for him at Aziraphale’s. He thinks about bringing Aziraphale something, but can’t come up with something appropriate. He’s eager to be back, unable to get the worrying thought out of his head that there’s something wrong with his angel. If only he could _remember_. 

The sign hanging on the door of the bookshop says it’s closed, but Crowley has never been one to read signs anyway, so he strolls right on in.

“Aziraphale?” he calls into the oddly empty bookshop. On his way in, he raps on the wooden door with the back of his knuckle just to be polite.

No response.

Crowley wanders among the bookshelves, peering around them and expecting the angel in one of the aisles reading a book and munching on a biscuit.

Oh, that’s what he should have brought: _biscuits_.

“Hey, angel, I’m back,” he says, pivoting in place, before continuing to skulk about the place in search of his friend. “Where are you?”

Crowley turns a corner and notices white feathers scattered across the floor. He pauses to stare at them and desperately tries to calm himself. Aziraphale must be molting. That’s it.

Suddenly, the black feather from a few days before comes to mind, accompanied by an unknown, mild fear.

He knows now that it didn’t belong to a crow. So who did it belong to?

“Aziraphale?” he calls again, a little louder this time, because now it’s beginning to be a bit worrying that he can’t find him. 

A moment later he hears a thud and then, “...Crowley?”

It’s Aziraphale—and he sounds _scared._

Crowley’s eyes widen and he rushes up the stairs, yelling, “Aziraphale! Aziraphale, blasted, where are you? Aziraphale!”

He runs down the hallway and throws open the door to Aziraphale’s bedroom, fully expecting Gabriel or a demon or some kind of monster that he can destroy.

But he stops in the doorway instead.

The floor is covered with scattered white feathers. It couldn’t have been from a fight—there’s just too many of them and there’s no sign of blood. Then he sees Aziraphale, curled up at the edge of the room with his wings unfurled.

And—they’re not white anymore. Not completely. In some places, there are no feathers at all, in others there is still some white, but most of the feathers—

Crowley’s heart plummets.

They’re black. Aziraphale’s feathers are _black_.

Aziraphale shifts his wings slightly to peek out from behind them. He’s shaking. His eyes, wide in anguish, are filled with relief once he sees Crowley. “Thank goodness you’re back,” he says, and his knuckles are white from clenching his arm too tightly. 

In a heartbeat, Crowley has crossed the room and knelt down beside his angel. Careful not to brush against the wings in case they’re sensitive, he reaches out to hold Aziraphale’s cheek. “Tell me what happened,” he says and tries to keep his voice from shaking. “What’s going on? What is this?”

He tries to focus on Aziraphale’s eyes and not on the black feathers, but his eyes can’t help but glance over them anxiously. He knows what they mean. He knows and yet it can’t be true. The last shred of hope within him prays that Aziraphale won’t confirm his thoughts although there can’t be any other explanation except—

“I’m Falling,” Aziraphale says, softly. Something in his eyes is resigned, like he’s already given in to his fate.

“No, no, no, no, no, no,” Crowley replies and searches his gaze, trying to find _hope_. “Angel, that’s impossible, you can’t Fall, you’re _good_.”

Aziraphale smiles, and it’s both sad and fond. “My dear, so are you.”

Crowley stares into his face. It all makes sense now—all the little oddities he was noticing. The scent on Aziraphale is stronger, and now Crowley can see that it’s the smell of poppies, a smell that has been lost in a sea of memories.

Sleep, death, forgetting.

It is a sad scent.

Crowley stands up. “Let’s go,” he says. “We’ll march up to Heaven and demand to speak with Her. After all that we’ve done, She can’t condemn you like this! There must be some sort of mistake.”

“Crowley, wait,” Aziraphale says as he turns to leave, grabbing his hand. “I have to—” He suddenly lets out a cry of pain, his grip on Crowley loosening as he doubles over.

Immediately Crowley is back down by his side, his hands hovering around Aziraphale like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “Are you okay?” he asks and hates the tremble in his voice. “Aziraphale?”

“Eugh—it’s—it’s fine,” Aziraphale manages, his face contorting. After a moment, he leans back and sighs, and it seems the intense pain has passed. His eyes meet Crowley’s, and he’s never seen them so sad. “I didn’t know it hurt this much, Crowley. I always thought that it hurt but not...I’ve never experienced something so excruciating.”

Crowley remembers his Fall. Of course he does; no demon ever forgets. He remembers how much it burned, how much he bled, how badly the blinding pain seared into his skin. He fell and fell into the brightness and came out of the darkness a different person. He’s never told Aziraphale about it; Aziraphale’s never asked. He had hoped Aziraphale would never need to know what it was like to Fall.

But telling him would have been a million times better than having him actually experience it.

He takes Aziraphale’s hand and squeezes it. “How long…” He clears his throat. “How long have you been Falling?”

Aziraphale is quiet. His face is pinched, and now it looks wearied too. “When we came home from the airbase, I found it,” he finally says. “The—the first black feather, I mean. It was small, buried beneath all the others. I plucked it out, thinking it was...I don’t know, some sort of defect. In the days following, I noticed some feathers were falling out. I thought it could be an early molting season until black ones replaced them.” He brushes against the black feathers with the back of a hand. “I plucked them and plucked them, but they bled black and always grew back thicker and more painful. I sought them out for help, but they...they turned me away.”

Crowley doesn’t have to ask who “they” are. His grip on Aziraphale’s hand tightens, and he brings it to rest against his forehead. “I should have stayed with you. I knew there was something wrong but I…oh, Aziraphale,” he says, lowering it and looking into his eyes, “why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“I thought I could handle it,” Aziraphale admits quietly. “I didn’t want to worry you. But—but you’re right, I should have said something. I just didn’t want to believe it was real. It’s been so terrifying. It’s like—” His eyes suddenly widen, and he lets out another sharp cry of pain. His hand rips from Crowley’s to grasp at his arm, which has begun to pulsate.

“Angel? Angel!”

Crowley doesn’t know what to do. All he can think is that his angel is in pain, that his angel is _hurting_ , that there’s _nothing he can do about it_. Why is he always so useless when Aziraphale needs him?

Why is he always too late?

Aziraphale’s breathing is hitched and irregular. His eyes close. After a few more tense moments his breathing stabilizes, and he lets go of his arm. He’s still shaking. “It’s the celestial energy,” he explains when he sees Crowley’s horrified face. “I think. It’s being— _burned_ away or something. That’s what it feels like, at least. They’ve been growing in frequency and intensity. I think it means…” He falls silent.

Crowley stares at him. “No,” he says again because it’s all he can say. “ _No_ , there must be a way—bloody hell—I can’t let this happen to you—It’s my fault that you’re—”

He doesn’t even realize how much he’s shaking until Aziraphale lays his hand on top of his and holds his cheek with the other. “It’s _not_ your fault Crowley,” he says, and for once, his voice is steady. “You are not the reason.”

“But how can they do this to you?”

How could they hurt his angel?

Aziraphale laughs weakly. “Oh, my dear, you know I’ve never been a very good angel. And that’s—” He stops, winces, and Crowley watches as a few black feathers grew into the empty spots in Aziraphale’s wings. Aziraphale looks over at them, and Crowley doesn’t miss the wave of fear that passes over his face. “Well, the black isn’t so bad,” the angel—he _is_ still an angel, isn’t he?—says when his gaze falls back on Crowley. His voice trembles slightly, but he’s trying to smile. “I could get used to it.”

Crowley can’t smile back. “Aziraphale,” he says quietly, and his tone of voice has never sounded so grave, “you know what...what happens when angels become demons, they…”

Aziraphale’s grip on his hand tightens. His eyebrows furrow, his gaze becoming pained. “I-I know, Crowley. They told us. I know,” he says again, quieter. His face tightens even more as another black feather appears.

The room falls silent as the weight of the situation sinks in. Crowley is trying to untangle himself from the mess of thoughts and feelings wrapped up in his head. It’s all happening too fast—he doesn’t have time to understand it all and figure out a way to fix it. If he only had more _time_ —

“We’re running out of time.”

Aziraphale says nothing. He looks down with a pained expression.

“But I...this can’t...I have so much I still need to _tell_ you.” The desperation and panic floods into Crowley’s voice as he says, “I can’t lose you, I can’t. We were supposed to have more _time_.” He inhales deeply, letting out a shaky breath. Millions of thoughts are racing through his head. Why has he waited so long? Why, why, why? 

He has to tell him.

He has to tell him.

He has to tell him _now_.

Before he can’t.

“Aziraphale,” he says, and the words are getting caught in his throat. “I love you. More than anything. I’ve waited too long to properly say how much you mean to me. I never knew how to say it but I know how I feel now. I love you, that’s all. I love you, and that means _everything_ to me.”

Two tears spill out from Aziraphale’s eyes and roll down his cheeks. “I know, dearest. Oh, Crowley, I love you too.”

And into each other’s arms they fall, holding onto each other as if it was their last. When Aziraphale smiles and tells him yes, he kisses him, and what should have only been sweet is tainted by the bitterness of the circumstance.

Crowley holds Aziraphale’s face and tries to memorize every detail of his face. Aziraphale looks back at him like he’s trying to do the same. 

It’s futile, no matter what they do. It’s futile, but they try, and maybe that’s love.

“Tell me what I can do,” Crowley says.

And Aziraphale responds, “Just be here. You make me stronger.”

Hold me, he says, and Crowley would gladly do nothing more.

He holds him through every tremor and shake, through every new crack and blackened feather. He kisses away his tears and tries not to cry himself. He thinks, maybe, if he holds him tight enough, Aziraphale won’t go. 

Not that either of them can stop it. Not that either of them want him to go.

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, pulling away to hold Crowley’s face in his trembling hands. “I’m never not going to love you.”

Crowley swallows and says, “You can’t promise that.” 

“But I can’t imagine _not_ loving you.” He wipes away a tear with his thumb. “You’re everything to me. No matter what I’ll always know that I love you. I’m sure of that.”

He can’t bring himself to say anything back; it’s too difficult. Aziraphale leans in to kiss the corner of his lips and then rests his head against Crowley’s chest.

“Will they want me?” he asks. “Will they come for me?”

“Do you want them to?”

“No.”

His arms squeeze around Aziraphale’s middle just a little tighter. “Then I won’t let them. I’ll take care of you. I’ll protect you. I won’t leave you.”

“What if I don’t—” Aziraphale’s voice trails off, and he grows pale.

Crowley hears the unfinished sentiment. He leans back so he can look Aziraphale in the eyes and, smiling a little, says, “You think you can get rid of me that easily? After all this time, I’m—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupts, and his voice sounds strangled.

He stops. “What?” he asks.

Stagnantly, Aziraphale lifts up his wings to bring them forward. Crowley, who hasn’t been looking at them at all, is shocked to see that they’ve turned entirely black. Then his eyes fall on a single white feather lying amidst the darkness—the last white feather of the angel Aziraphale.

Silence descends upon the room once more. 

Aziraphale shudders, disgust and terror masking his face, and Crowley pulls him into his chest, gently stroking his side as he rests his chin on his head.

“Oh, angel,” he breathes, “it’s alright.”

Aziraphale flinches. His breath hitches awkwardly. “What if I become something awful?” he asks, and Crowley’s heart constricts painfully at the words. “I’m so terrified, Crowley. I don’t know what to do.” He starts to cry again, and Crowley begins to feel the prick of tears in the back of his eyes as well.

“You’re not going to be something awful, angel,” he says. “You’re kind and you’re brave and so _stubborn_ sometimes that I don’t know what to do. Stupid and proud as you are clever and delightful. I wish I could somehow show you how I see you, because when I look at you I see an—an entire _galaxy_ of stars and suns filling the space with warmth and joy. And when you’re with me that’s how I feel, like no matter where I am, you’ll be there too. I...I can’t say what will happen for sure, but at the very least, you will always exist inside me. The pieces of me are the pieces of you, angel. You need to know that.”

Crowley’s words have the opposite effect that he intended; Aziraphale starts to cry even more. He looks down in panic as Aziraphale sobs into his shirt and bunches it in his fists. 

“I’m sorry,” he cries, and it’s so _broken_ , “I love you so much and I’m sorry.”

“Aziraphale, why are you sorry?” 

“I don’t want to leave, I don’t want to lose you, I don’t want to be someone else!” 

Crowley’s eyebrows furrow, and he presses a kiss against the top of Aziraphale’s head, closing his eyes. “If there was anything I could do to end your suffering,” he murmurs, “I would. But no matter what happens, I’ll still love you the same.”

“It hurts,” he chokes out. “I just want it to be _over_.”

“I know. You’ve been so strong, love.”

Aziraphale lifts his head, watery blue eyes focusing on Crowley’s face. “Crowley,” he says, “I—”

Before he can finish, something akin to but much more sinister than an electric current bolts through Aziraphale’s body and strikes at his heart. He crumples, his weight crashing down on Crowley, who tries to set him back up.

“Hey, Aziraphale? Aziraphale?” 

Crowley shakes him, but this time he does not wake. He hears the windows rattle. A moment later, they abruptly open and a stormy wind bursts through and swirls through the room, knocking over vases and books and picture frames. Crowley holds up his arm to protect himself from the strong gust blowing through. With the other, he clings onto Aziraphale’s limp form. It’s then, with the storm whirling and intensifying around them, that he notices a dark substance oozing from the base of Aziraphale’s wings. It drips, pooling onto the ground, and black tendrils begin to spread along his back. He immediately knows to pull away; something tells him he shouldn’t touch it.

And although it saves him, he’ll consider letting go of Aziraphale a mistake. 

The wind swirls around Aziraphale, surrounding him in a gusty storm of fury and lifting him up into the air. As the wind pulls him up, the black substance pulls him down. 

His eyes open. He looks over at Crowley, and the fear in them sends a chill down Crowley’s spine. A tear leaks out from one of his eyes.

And then Aziraphale screams.

It’s high and pained, as if all of life’s sufferings are contained in that one sound. It spills from his lips and into the sky, which has forsaken him. It escapes the room, filling all of time and space with the agony of a Fall.

Crowley can’t handle it. Panicked by the sound and blinked by his desire to just _help_ Aziraphale, he steps forward into the whirlwind. It rejects him; he flies back and hits the wall, crumpling to the ground. The impact briefly stuns him. He tries to sit up, pain shooting up his right arm, and watches as Aziraphale’s head is forced up. Light emits from his eyes and mouth as the whirlwind intensifies around him, swirling up feathers and loose things. 

Crowley calls for him, over and over—begging him and begging God and begging this whole bloody planet. He reaches out his hand for Aziraphale, but the whirlwind keeps him pressed up against the wall, away from Aziraphale. The strong smell of boiling sulfur suddenly hits him like a smack across the face. Aziraphale’s skin is burning, burning, burning—melting away and mixing in with the tears that stream down his face. And still he screams.

No matter how much it hurts to see, Crowley looks on, desperate to hold on to every bit of Aziraphale that is left, every bit that is slowly being ripped away. He can’t even tell what’s happening anymore. It’s all so disorienting—the light, the wind, the screaming. And then suddenly the light burns bright, and Crowley squeezes his eyes shut to shield himself from it.

The silence trembles in the air.

Slowly, hesitantly, Crowley opens his eyes.

The wind has settled. Traces of its presence remain in the fallen books and other chaos that it has left the room in. Where Aziraphale had stood only seconds before, a demon now crouches. Ram-like horns protrude from the front of his head, nestled in among white curls. His clothes have all but burned away, showing his slightly charred skin. Behind him, his feathery black wings expand, filling the space with its darkness.

Crowley’s eyes can’t help but widen when the demon turns to face him, his horizontal, rectangular shaped pupils staring down at Crowley. The icy blue of his gaze pierces him.

“Who are you?” the demon asks and then pauses, looking confused. “Who am I?”

Crowley’s heart twists inside his chest. He can’t do this after all. His gaze falters, falls to the ground, where he sees a ring among the white feathers. He picks it up. It’s gold, engraved with a pair of wings. He considers it for a moment, rolling it between his fingers, before sliding it onto his pinky. It doesn’t quite fit; that doesn’t matter to him. He smiles down at it wistfully.

Poppies are also supposed to represent peace, he remembers absentmindedly and looks back up. “I’m Crowley,” he says, and if there are tears in his eyes, no one will ever know. “A demon...like you. Your name is Aziraphale. Was, if you’d like.”

He remembers his smile. 

_My dear._

He wonders if he’ll ever see that smile again.

Crowley wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand and looks up into the face of a stranger.

“And you were my angel.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
